


The Garden

by Camfield



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camfield/pseuds/Camfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew there was nothing left for him, not after the war. This was his way out, to tear himself away from ruining the future of those who had plans. Plans that had never included him, plans that never would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden

It was soothing. Calming, in a way.

To have made his choice, to be carrying it out. 

His garden was glistening in the glow that Hadeen still had against the landscape. Thriving crystals in half circles, grouped by tonal resonance and pitch, rather than color or maturity. A challenging configuration to sing to, and do properly, but he supposed that wouldn’t matter anyway. He could sing them, had sung them.

He’d never attained Master status anyway, and those who had the skill to sing them would likely not come here anyway.

A song rang out, complex and full and even without the backing of a Theatron, it was pure and rich. His voice dipping between harmonies with a rich tenor that sunk to the deepest of baritones and rose to the highest of sopranos. Seventy-nine crystals, his only hard found acquisitions after the war, spread out in just enough space to thrive and close enough to be his own personal choir.

In a way, he would miss them.

This.

The song of his own making, the one thing he would leave behind in memoriam. His spark put into strands of pure sound, ones that whispered and trilled over the landscape. Over his own quivering doorwings and trembling servos. 

His sparksong. 

And he sang that song. Again and again while he worked, until his vocalizer no longer worked properly and his tank pinged from hunger.

Still he worked. Still he created until it was done and finally, finally he could lay down in the shallow depression that he had made in the ground. Ignoring the ping that came from his doorwings, and then, just turning off the sensors in them.

Chestplating opened. His hood had long gone by the wayside, and his kibble simply parted to reveal his spark chamber and the spark inside. One servo dipping inside to stroke the lines of damage he couldn’t remember getting and had never opted to have repaired. 

The best of the recordings is picked through and copied to several datachips, his other servo collecting them and placing each one in it’s own container, then lowering all of the containers into his spark chamber and letting them rest against the back of it. Ignoring that discomfort as well.

He vented in, then out. Praying to Primus, to deities from cultures long dead and those that ruled creatures and sentience alike. Begging for, not forgiveness, but for his spark to stay, for those who collected the dead to leave him be.

Bluestreak would not be reuniting with anyone in the Well. 

Both servos gripped his crystal and squeezed. Turning off his HUD, his sensors. Everything that would stop him, gone from his sight and thought. Squeezing until he could feel fractures and even harder still because he could not fail in this, not like he had in everything else. 

A crack, a flash of pain and he pushed his hydraulics to finish before they failed. Optics fading, senses fading...

Function, fading.

The last thing he did before the crystal shattered between his own servos was smile, the emotion locked in place as a spark rose from the gray frame to drift between the crystals. 

Touching them, rolling along them until it came to the largest and flashing bright in the dim of orns end. Energy swirling as it pressed to the crystal. Pressing, pressing until it slipped beneath the glossy surface to dance within it, that single tone ringing out into the garden.

A call, to any who wished to hear it. 

That one single tone racing across the whole of Cybertron as the planet itself reverberated with it’s sound for the span of a single klick. 

When Hadeen rose again, it would be to a dead mech...

But a beautiful crystal. One that had streaks of lightning that danced through it and would sing out on it’s own once in a while.

Reminding itself, if no one else, of who it was.


End file.
